missed target
by A G Moore
Summary: Edgar/Lydia, one-shot. Based between "Acceptance" and "Hysterical Blindness."


Each time the crowd gave a joined "ooh" or "ahh," Lydia could feel it. Something moved within her, shifting to curl around every muscle. The feeling rose from her stomach, rolling over her chest and up her throat to curl a smile at her lips. She wasn't a prideful woman, but she couldn't keep the sentiment at bay.

Her arms were lifted high over her head, wrists bound together by a single red scarf. She was just tall enough to stand on her flat feet in the warm dust. An inch or two shorter and she'd be forced to get onto her tip toes to take the strain off of her hands. Tilting her chin downward, she pushed herself back against the wheel, her smile transforming as she locked eyes with Edgar, from delight to something softer, something teasing.

The wind was warm as it swept through the crowded carnival, kicking up the bottom of her long skirt and tossing it around her ankles, also bound.

No one seemed to notice how they stared at each other, their eyes level and unblinking. He held two throwing knives in the palm of his hand, fingers enclosed carefully around them. There was one pressed against the flesh of her forearm. The metal was cool and dangerously close, but Edgar was precise. She trusted him.

Everyone was concentrated on the blade in his other hand. He was poised, ready to throw it, and it seemed to be aimed right at her head. She could see him take a deep breath, his chest growing in size and then deflating, eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin, concentrated line. Lydia's brow lifted, a hardly noticeable gesture.

Bringing his arm back, he flicked it forward and released the knife. A flash of silver and the sound of metal hitting wood later, the crowd stared agape at the blade handle sticking out a whisper's length from her cheek.

Lydia gave a silent sigh of relief. She hated that throw. No matter how many times he did it, she hated it.

Those gathered erupted in hoots and hollers and applause, but Edgar didn't glance away from her face. He was a bundle of nerves. Attempting that throw was dangerous, but he knew the response he got from the crowd. They both needed that, that rush of acceptance they got when everyone seemed to be in awe of them. In awe of his skill, and in awe of her bravery.

The problems with Samuel were starting to wear on him, as well as the secret he was keeping for Lydia. He'd do anything for her, and he'd sworn such to her countless times before, but was he risking his family for the affection of a woman? There was a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, dread and fear like he'd only felt before once in his life.

Passing another blade from one hand to the other, Edgar lifted it high. The throw was fluid, almost impossible to catch by the human eye. That's what made his show so impressive. His speed, his strength, his precision. And she was unflappable. Even as the blade hit sideways, twisted by his less than stable hand, and tore through her shirt, she hardly blinked.

The crowd went wild, unaware that he'd made a mistake. Her confidence wore off on them, and they didn't catch the flash of pain in her eyes or the growing dark spot on her shirt. The dark color was just enough to mask it entirely, but Edgar could see it. He moved forward suddenly, intent to stop the show, but Lydia would not have it.

Her chin tilted in a show of insolence, eyebrow lifted almost to the sky. "You're giving up now?" she called out to him. "You still have one left. And these people want a show!" Her voice increased in volume as she spoke in an attempt to rouse the crowd. It worked, and soon they were shouting for him to throw the last knife. She settled back into her spot, shoulders pressed against the wooden wheel. The faint mocking smile was back.

The last knife. Edgar tore his eyes away from Lydia's face, falling instead to the blade in his hand. It felt heavier than the last, but, all clichés aside, he reminded himself that the show must go on. One thing his family taught him was that there was no stopping, not for their kind. They'd never stop moving, never stop performing, never stop and settle and live a normal life. But did any of them want normality? It was a pretty dream, but it was impossible.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Edgar aimed, eyes narrowed. The inside of his bottom lip was nearly raw from biting on it, but he continued to press down with his teeth, uncertain. With his usual speed, he threw the blade.

The sound of ripping fabric filled the air, and it worried his stomach. But this time, it wasn't Lydia's shirt. The sound came from the scarf holding her against the wheel. Cut in half, her wrists were released and she let them fall to her sides. The screams of amusement from the crowd was nearly deafening and Edgar moved forward slowly, going to his knee to unfasten the ties around her ankles.

Lydia's hand fell unconsciously to the top of his head, curling through the back of his hair and trailing a lazy path down to his neck. When he'd finally released her, he stood and moved just far enough away from her to have her let go. He caught up her hand and guided her a few paces forward so she might be acknowledged by the group.

She bent at the waist, giving them all a genuine smile through the pain. When she straightened her back, she leaned close to him and lowered her voice. "I need to get back to my trailer," she whispered, her lips centimeters away from his ear. Before he was able to reply, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the fray.

At that, he lifted his free hand to the crowd and thanked them all for watching the show. Anxiety swam over him and he didn't even bother removing the knives from the wheel before he followed her. His assistant would tend to them, as well as the scarf and the other bindings. There was a woman to whom he owed an apology.

The door to her trailer was ajar when he got there, and he entered without knocking, something he'd grown accustom to doing over the years.

Lydia was standing in the dimly lit space, toying with the bandage at her waist as she tried to tape it there. Her shirt was discarded on the sofa, not completely ruined but entirely forgotten. She had her back to him, but she turned when she heard him enter, dark eyes wide. When she saw that it was only Edgar, she gave a fitful sigh before turning completely around and tossing him the tiny roll of tape. "Help me, will you?"

He nodded, shutting the door before moving closer. "I'm…" Clearing his throat, he looked down at his hands. "I'm sorry, Lydia," he mumbled as his fingers groped at the tape. For a man who handled dangerous weapons with such accuracy, he sure had a lot of trouble with the little things.

"Don't apologize." Her voice was warm and smoky, as always. He knew she meant every word that passed her lips, but he couldn't stop. He'd made a mistake. He never made mistakes, not with knives and certainly not with her.

"I have to," was his simple reply, finally tugging a few inches of tape and tearing it with his teeth. Sitting down in front of her, he turned her a little so he would have enough light to see where he was putting the tape. "I was thinking too much. I couldn't concentrate."

Lydia's brow furrowed as she looked down at him, watching as he positioned the tape carefully over one edge of the bandage. He pressed down on the tape, fingers smoothing over it to keep it in place. Her hand went to his and she gave his fingers a firm squeeze. "About what?" Her quiet inquiry wasn't enough to get him to look at her. When next she spoke, her voice was heavier and infinitely more serious. "About what, Edgar? Is this about Samuel?"

"Not only Samuel, no," he muttered, sliding his hand out of hers to tear off another piece of tape. He worked in silence, a silence that frustrated her. Lydia never relied entirely on words, but her own mind was racing about what Edgar could possibly be so upset about. Was it about her daughter? About the new people Samuel was bringing in? It could be any number of things. Edgar wasn't a man of many words, most of all confessions. He was usually candid with her, though. There was something wrong.

Minutes later, the cut was properly bandaged and he still hadn't said another word. "Edgar," Lydia said softly, bringing her hand to brush her long fingers across his cheekbone. The growth on his cheeks felt familiar against her skin and she sighed. "Stand up."

Without so much as a murmur of recognition, he lifted himself from the couch. He was only an inch or two taller than she was, and her gaze roamed from his mouth to his eyes to make up for the difference. There was something hard in those eyes, and this time it was more than an act. He wasn't a gentle man. He was tough, hardened by things she could scarcely understand, but that didn't make him repulsive. Some vulnerability lay buried beneath everything. She knew it. He'd shown it once or twice, but he made sure to put up a front around Samuel and the rest of the family.

As Edgar wasn't a man of words, Lydia was a woman of few herself. She, too, was silent as she stood there, head tilted ever so slightly to the side, her expression pliant and searching. Her hands curled around the sides of his neck, settling there without moving him an inch. She wouldn't find her answers tonight. She wasn't so sure she even wanted them.

Leaning forward, Lydia pressed her forehead against Edgar's. He look deep breath, releasing it in a shuddering sigh. "I'm sorry, Lydia. I'd understand if ya didn't want to stand for me anymore."

"Are you kidding?" she asked, her voice low and breathy. She chuckled, shaking her head and running a calming hand up and down his neck. "What else am I going to do?" Taking a step back, she looked at him, her eyes somehow brighter even in the darkened trailer. Her hands slipped away from him and she laughed again. Her teasing smile was back, except this time it was wider. Toothier. Gesturing toward the torn shirt lying on the couch, she shrugged, "I've been hurt a lot worse than that."

Her nonchalance frustrated him. "You know what I mean."

Sucking her full bottom lip into her mouth, Lydia nodded, her smile gone. For a moment, Edgar thought she'd say something about trust or him telling her the truth. Instead, she tilted her head toward the door. "I have to fix my shirt." She paused, giving him one last look before turning her back to him and rummaging through the cabinets for something. "I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow."

Edgar went to touch her, to embrace her or to press his hand to her cheek, but he couldn't find it within himself to do so. His limbs felt heavy, but not quite heavy enough to keep him from moving toward the door.


End file.
